Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (26 page)

Since his minivan would be more comfortable for the long drive ahead of us, Eddie and I decided to take his car for our drive to the lake. After he negotiated his vehicle out of downtown Dallas and onto the eastbound interstate, he turned on the radio, which was tuned to an easy listening station. I reached for the button but he slapped my hand away. “My car, my music.”

He had me there.

The buds on the trees had opened now, new green leaves beginning to fill out the branches. The weather was perfect, low seventies, not a cloud in the sky. About a dozen miles past the outer Dallas suburbs, we reached our exit and turned off the highway.

Josh rang my cell then, letting me know he’d been able to intercept the checks written at last night’s seminar before they’d been cashed and the money sent off to South America. “Good job.” Part of me wished I could have been at the bank to see Stan Shelton’s reaction when the order had been handed to him. According to Josh, he’d shit a brick.

Eddie and I made our way past farmland and ranches dotted with grazing cattle, slowing down as we drove through several small towns boasting a Dairy Queen as their focal point. We made small talk along the way. His girls’ soccer team was having a good season. Six wins, no losses. He’d been nominated for coach of the year by the youth league. His wife, Sandra, had put new curtains in their bedroom. Eddie hated them. Too frilly. His mother-in-law was coming for a visit next week. “Too bad we’ll be on mandatory overtime.”

I glanced over at him. “I didn’t hear anything about OT.”

Eddie put a finger to his lips and shot me a wink.

“Oh, right,” I said. “The mandatory overtime.” I slapped my forehead. “How could I have forgotten?”

The two of us exchanged conspiratorial chuckles.

He glanced over at me. “You’re not going to shoot anyone today, are you?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Ha-ha,” I huffed.

A grin tugged at his lips. “Jus’ messing with you.”

“Gee, thanks, partner.” The edge in my mind-set was apparent in my voice.

He eyed me, his face serious now. “Relax, Tara. White-collar types usually give themselves up easily. We shouldn’t have any problems.”

Eddie thought I was anxious about the bust. In truth, my anxiety stemmed from my concerns about Brett. I’d opened up to Christina about my suspicions, but as close as Eddie and I had become, I hadn’t yet had an opportunity to discuss my doubts about my boyfriend. But now was as good a time as any, I supposed.

I stared straight ahead, my eyes locked on the highway. “I may be dating a criminal.”

“What the hell?” The car swerved slightly as Eddie looked over at me.

I laid my head back on the headrest, closed my eyes, and spilled my guts, telling Eddie everything I knew. When I was done, I opened my eyes and looked over at him. “What do you think?”

Eddie cocked his head, his expression wary. “I think you need to have a long, hard talk with your boyfriend,” he said. “And I think you need to have your handcuffs ready when you do it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Knock-Knock

An hour later, we reached the lake and turned into the exclusive waterfront development.

“These are some huge-ass houses,” Eddie said, taking in the English Tudor flanked by topiary horses. He rolled down his window and sniffed the moist lake air. “This place reeks of pomposity.”

“Nah,” I said. “I think that’s a dead fish.”

He pulled up behind a mud-encrusted pickup at the curb in front of the Sheltons’ imposing stone house and parked. Various other trucks and inexpensive commuter cars, probably belonging to the landscaping crew, were parked along the curb, including Brett’s Navigator. I wondered if he was working on the landscaping outside or was inside the house with Gryder conspiring to defraud investors.

The front yard was still bare dirt, but the scrap wood and scrawny trees had been removed from the property. An assortment of large live oak trees, all more than a dozen feet tall, leaned against the front of the house, waiting to be planted, their roots balled up in burlap. The rumble of heavy equipment grew suddenly louder as a green John Deere tractor emerged from behind the house about forty yards away, sending up a low, dense cloud of dust. The tractor dragged a wide, triangular apparatus that broke up the dirt and raked it smooth.

Brett sat at the wheel. That was convenient. After I arrested Gryder, I could bring Brett in right away, too, for double bonus points. The thought made my stomach queasy again. The tractor made a U-turn at the edge of the lot and headed back behind the house. He hadn’t noticed me. Good. I’d rather deal with him later. We had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Before Eddie and I headed to the door, we donned our raid jackets and ballistic vests. Not that we were likely to need the vests, but IRS procedures require an agent to wear the vest any time a warrant is served, just in case. My raid jacket bore an irregular line of stitching across the right sleeve where Jack Battaglia had sliced it with the box cutter. My tailor had done his best to fix the gaping hole, but it hadn’t been an easy job. The patch job on my jacket mirrored the battle scar on my forearm. Ajay’d done his best, too, but that thin, raised scar would likely be with me the rest of my life. Years from now, my grandchildren would sit on my lap, begging me again and again to tell them the story of the hairy man with the box cutter and how their gunslinger granny had shot the blade right out of his hand.

Eddie and I slid our guns into our hip holsters, zipping our jackets halfway up to conceal the weapons. Our handcuffs and pepper spray went into our briefcases, and our briefcases went into our hands.

Now properly prepared, we picked our way across the edge of the yard to the sidewalk, avoiding the dried dirt clods and a man driving a small orange and white Bobcat excavator. Gryder’s Lexus sat in the driveway next to a banana-yellow Camaro, presumably Chelsea’s, parked at a sloppy angle, the right front tire resting in the dirt off the edge of the driveway. The paint on both cars was dull with dust generated by the landscaping crew.

We stepped up to the oversized door and Eddie pushed the doorbell. Tones rang out inside playing the notes to “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” the quintessential song of Texas pride.

When there was no response, Eddie rang the bell again, twice. Still no response. Eddie added a few persistent knocks on the door. No answer.

I cupped my left hand around my eyes and peeked into one of the narrow glass windows flanking the door. “No sign of life.”

“Maybe Gryder’s in the shower,” Eddie suggested.

The search warrant technically gave us the right to storm the place if need be, but without a battering ram or assistance from the Dallas Cowboys’ offensive line, we weren’t likely to have much luck getting into the stone fortress.

I stepped back from the window. “Gryder gave Christina a business card last night. Maybe it’s got a phone number on it.”

Setting my briefcase down on the porch, I knelt down, snapped open the clasps, and rummaged through the paperwork. I found Gryder’s business card tucked into a pocket and looked it over. Sure enough, the card included a toll-free phone number, one that, more than likely, was programmed to forward all calls to Gryder’s unlisted, untraceable cell number. I stood and dialed the 800 number on my cell phone.

On the fifth ring, Gryder answered. “XChange Investments, Michael Gryder.”

“Hello, Mr. Gryder. This is Tara Holloway. We met at the Rangers game?”

He hesitated a moment. “Right. I remember. Brett’s girlfriend. What can I do for you?”

“For starters, you can let me in the front door,” I said. “I’m on the porch.”

Several seconds of silence followed, Gryder no doubt trying to figure out what the heck I was doing at the lake house. But I knew better than to tip my hand too soon, lest he rev up his shredder or take a hammer to his laptop’s hard drive.

“Mr. Gryder?”

“Uh … yeah, I’ll be right down.”

Gryder answered the door a moment later, cracking it just enough for us to see he was wearing moccasin-style slippers and a bathrobe, a silky paisley-print number that seemed a little fruity, even for him. Though he wasn’t yet dressed, he’d already shellacked his hair with gel. He gave off a faint smell of deodorant soap and pomade that clashed with the earthy smell outside. His grin today was halfhearted at best. I handed the search warrant to him through the small open gap.

“I’m here on official IRS business,” I said. “This is my partner, Eddie Bardin. We need to search the place.”

“IRS?” Gryder looked from the document in his hand to me, his face contorting in anger and disgust. “Brett said you were a CPA.”

“I am. I’m also a special agent with the IRS Criminal Investigations Division.” As in kicking ass and taking names. And today the name was Michael Gryder.

He handed the warrant back to me. “Why are you interested in me?”

“We have reason to believe there may be some issues with your investment business.”

“Issues.” Gryder enunciated the word as if it left a foul taste in his mouth. “What makes you think that?”

I wasn’t about to divulge that Dave Edwards, the bank employee, had spilled the beans. Shelton would fire the guy if he knew. “We received a report of suspicious activity.”

“From who?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that at the moment.”

Gryder’s eyes narrowed. “It was your boyfriend, Brett, wasn’t it?”

Funny. I’d been suspicious Brett was involved with Gryder and now Gryder was suspicious Brett was involved with the IRS. I shook my head. “Brett doesn’t know anything about our investigation.”

Gryder stood a little straighter. “I’ll need to call my attorney before I allow you in. I’m sure you understand.” Right on cue, there was the shit-eating grin.

Gryder’s lawyer would tell him what all lawyers do in this situation. Gryder had no choice but to comply unless he wanted to find his ass in jail for contempt of court. If the search were improper, the best he could hope for was that the court would throw the evidence out.

“Sure. Call your lawyer,” I said. “No problem.”

Gryder went to shut the door but found himself unable to do so with my steel-toed Dr. Martens lodged between the door and the frame. I hadn’t been around long, but I’d learned never to let a tax evader shut a door on me. I’d also learned—the hard way—not to stick my foot in a door if I wasn’t wearing steel-toed shoes. “We’ll wait inside.”

Gryder reluctantly stepped back and allowed Eddie and me into the foyer, eyeing the words
IRS CRIMINAL INVESTIGATIONS
on the back of Eddie’s raid jacket.

“Don’t touch anything other than the phone,” Eddie warned.

Gryder’s eyes met Eddie’s. “Certainly.” His tone was falsely cordial.

While Gryder stepped away to call his lawyer, Eddie and I kept our ears pricked, listening for any suspicious sounds—shredders activating, toilets flushing repeatedly, garbage disposals grinding flash drives—not easy with all the noise emanating from the tractor and landscaping equipment outside.

A minute later, Gryder returned, his cell phone still at his ear. “My attorney says that since I don’t own the house you don’t have the authority to search it.”

“Our lawyer already discussed that issue with the judge,” Eddie said. “Tell your lawyer to call our lawyer. Ross O’Donnell will confirm what I’ve told you.” Eddie rattled off Ross’s phone number and Gryder repeated it into his phone.

The three of us waited in awkward silence while Gryder’s lawyer called Ross.

A few minutes later, Ross called my cell phone. “The search warrant stands,” Ross said. “Gryder’s lawyer insisted we teleconference with Judge Trumbull. She upheld it. Gryder must have a lot to hide if he’s fighting this hard to keep you out of there.”

“The same thought crossed my mind.” I glanced over at Gryder, who glared back at me and Eddie. If looks could kill, Eddie and I would be laid out at a joint funeral and closed caskets would be in order.

“His lawyer’s heading out there,” Ross continued, “so I’m coming, too. I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

Gryder’s cell phone rang then. “Gryder,” he spat. “Yeah?… Yeah?” His jaw flexed. “Make it quick. I’ve got plans later.” He snapped his phone closed.

I hiked my purse up on my shoulder. “Since you’ve got a busy schedule today, why don’t you show us where you keep the records for XChange Investments and we’ll get started?”

Gryder crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re not touching anything until my lawyer gets here.”

“That’s fine with us,” Eddie said, “but you’re not leaving our sight, either.”

“Of course not,” Gryder said, as if the concept were his idea. “I wouldn’t leave you two unsupervised and unattended.”

I plopped down on the steps in the foyer and pulled a legal pad out of my briefcase. “Hangman?” I asked Eddie.

“Why not?” He took a seat next to me.

Eddie guessed various letters, but only got two
s
’s and an
e
before he was hung.

“The word was ‘shyster.’” I glanced over at Gryder.

Eddie went next. I quickly guessed the words he’d chosen. “Tax evasion.”

When we grew bored of hangman, we played games on our cell phones. I placed a call to my insider at Neiman’s, a sharp salesgirl whose clever shopping strategies helped me achieve four seasons of high fashion on a limited budget. “Hi, it’s Tara. Any chance that blue Donna Karan suit’s been marked down?”

“Not yet, sorry. But there’s an adorable cranberry-colored sweater in your size on the clearance rack for eighty percent off. A new associate spilled her chai tea on the matching pants. Ruined ’em. Want me to hold the top for you?”

“Definitely.”

A loud knock sounded on the door behind us. Gryder opened the door for his attorney, a wide, square-jawed older man with close-cropped white hair and an expensive, custom-tailored gray suit.

On the doorstep behind Gryder’s lawyer stood Ross, also dressed in a gray suit though his was clearly off the rack. “Let’s get this party started.”

Gryder led our entourage upstairs, past a half-open bedroom door through which we heard snoring and saw Chelsea lying facedown and topless on the plush bed, her blond hair tangled and tousled, black satin sheets bunched around her waist. Gryder opened the door to an adjacent room and walked in ahead of us. “All of the records are in here. Keep them in order.”

Eddie and I exchanged knowing glances. The more guilty people were, the more they pretended we were simply a pesky nuisance rather than a real threat.

The only furniture in the room was a large computer desk with an open laptop resting on it. In the corner sat the three boxes Gryder had lugged into the hotel the night before, still strapped to the luggage cart. A half-dozen larger boxes were stacked between the two uncovered plate-glass windows overlooking the back of the property and the lake.

Ross slid out of his suit jacket and draped it across his arm as he stepped up to one of the tall windows. He gazed out at the lake. “What a spectacular view.”

Gryder’s attorney retrieved three metal folding chairs from the table in the kitchen and Gryder and the attorneys sat near the windows. The attorneys focused on me and Eddie, while Gryder stared out through the glass, watching the landscaping crew, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his robe riding up to reveal blindingly white legs. Guess he didn’t spend much time in shorts while he was in Costa Rica.

“I’ll start with the boxes,” Eddie told me, gesturing toward the desk. “You try the computer.”

I settled into the chair at the desk while Eddie knelt on the floor and began sorting through the first of the larger boxes. I pushed the button to boot up Gryder’s computer. The machine beeped and a few seconds later a log-in screen popped up, requesting a password. I turned to Gryder. “What’s your password?”

Gryder’s attorney bent over, whispered in his client’s ear, then looked up at me. “Mr. Gryder won’t be answering that question.”

Ross turned to the other attorney. “On what grounds?”

“Fifth amendment.”

Eddie and I exchanged glances again. Gryder was refusing to answer on the grounds of self-incrimination. Typical. Refusing to give us the password wouldn’t stop us. It would only serve to delay our investigation a few hours.

I turned the computer off and closed it. “We’ll have to take the laptop back to the office with us then.” With his hacking skills, Josh could have the password for us in less time than it took Gryder to apply his hair gel.

Gryder leaped from his chair, his robe momentarily flapping open to reveal black bikini briefs. “You can’t take my computer. It has personal information on it.”

Before I could respond, Gryder’s attorney put a hand on his client’s arm. “They can and they will, Michael. We can challenge the search in court later.”

Gryder turned purple, exhaled sharply, then muttered something under his breath.

Neener-neener. I stifled a snicker. I unplugged the computer and slid the laptop into a case I found in the desk drawer before joining Eddie on the floor in the corner.

Eddie had finished searching through the first box, which contained only blank account application forms and stacks of the same brochure Gryder had given to Christina at the seminar the night before. He started on the second box, which contained a stack of labeled file folders. He pulled out each file, looked the contents over briefly, then handed them to me for a second look.